


Night Terrors

by kylermalloy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bonding, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Nightmares, season 13
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-14
Updated: 2017-11-23
Packaged: 2019-02-02 11:47:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12726060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kylermalloy/pseuds/kylermalloy
Summary: Jack has nightmares sometimes.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there! So I wrote this little one-shot to satisfy my burning curiosity, and then it kept evolving and kept evolving. Hence, more chapters.
> 
> So this first one takes place in early season 13, before the events of 13x04.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

Sam Winchester is no stranger to nightmares.

The events of his everyday life would be enough to deprive a normal person of sleep, but he's evolved far past that. Only the deepest traumas are enough to disturb him or his brother from their slumber.

He still remembers being startled awake, just a few years ago, by Dean's unconscious cries, the only plea for help he couldn't suppress. Sam knows the sound of his brother's _breathing_ cold. So he can tell instantly that the voice he hears now isn't Dean's.

"Help!"

It's plaintive, pleading, an urgent call, full of panic.

It's the sound of a child calling for a parent.

Sam skids the length of the hallway, reaching the room in a matter of seconds. The door isn't closed all the way, but cracked slightly, allowing the tiniest sliver of light into the pitch-black space.

Taking no time to shudder at the invoked imagery, Sam bursts inside, quickly ensuring that the room is devoid of tangible threats before turning to the child in the bed.

Jack is stiff as a board, eyes wide, staring at the ceiling. His posture, with the covers drawn to his chin, betrays his true, incredibly tender, age. He seems paralyzed with fright.

Sam stammers slightly, unsure of how to proceed. "Jack, are you okay?"

The kid is silent for a moment. "I...I don't...I think so."

Fumbling in the dark, Sam reaches for the desk lamp and switches it on. The light illuminates Jack's frozen face, his red-rimmed eyes.

Sam kneels next to the bed. "What happened, Jack?" He has a sneaking suspicion of what's going on. He recognizes this script—flipped from many years ago, when he was child crying out in the night.

"I..." Jack takes a deep breath, unclenching his rigid body. "I saw...my father. My _real_ father. His eyes, they were _glowing._ They were reaching out...calling to me."

Sam swallows, pushing down the huge lump building in his throat. He understands what Jack has just gone through. Similar experiences used to leave him cowering in his bed, choking on silent screams.

"Then he was gone. It was dark. And I..." Jack trails off. He stares past Sam, his eyes filled with a blank kind of horror.

The kid can barely tell what's real and what's not. Empathy wells in Sam's chest, filling him with a desperate desire to soothe this vulnerable boy who so reminds him of himself. "Jack..."

He lifts his gaze at the sound of his name, looking to Sam with such trust, pleading wordlessly for him to make sense of this confusing, terrifying reality.

"You just had a nightmare, that's all. You were dreaming. Lucifer...can't get to you here. You're safe."

Jack's lips pinch together, his brow furrowing in a futile effort at remaining stoic. "It felt so _real._ " His voice wavers on the last word.

"I know." More than anyone, Sam knows. Lucifer still stars in many of his nightmares, ones he wakes from in a cold sweat, pressing his thumb into an old, smooth scar.

Jack is new to all this, though. How could he possibly know how to process such a psychological phenomenon? It's possible that he doesn't even understand what a nightmare is.

"Dreams can feel...really real. Especially bad ones. Most times, you don't even know you're dreaming until you wake up."

Something in Sam's words, his tone, stirs Jack. He sits upright, folding his legs against his chest, both a vulnerable position and a defensive one. "You have...bad dreams, too?"

A soft smile crosses Sam's lips involuntarily at the note of sympathy, of concern, in Jack's innocent question. He isn't just curious about the answer—he feels sorry that Sam has suffered.

"Yeah, I do. Sometimes. There's no...easy answer, no way to make them stop. You just have to...get through them."

Slowly, hesitantly, Jack stretches his arm out, laying a timid hand on Sam's shoulder. "I'm sorry."

Sam exhales sharply, unable to reconcile this gentle, uncertain child in front of him with the immensely powerful being who threw him and Dean across a room just moments after being born.

It's hard to imagine that the existence of such a creature instilled so much fear in Sam, such a short time ago. Rather than destroying worlds, Jack needs comfort from bad dreams. Offering comfort to Sam, as well.

"Thanks, Jack. It's a little easier, knowing that Lucifer is...well, he can't get to me, either." He winces internally, replaying the scene of his mother falling through the rift, hands still on the devil. While Sam and this world are safe from Lucifer, his mother certainly is not.

"Did Lucifer...hurt you?" Jack ventures. He draws his arms close to his body, wrapping them tightly around his legs. "Is that what your...nightmares are about?"

"S-some of them," Sam admits. His stomach twists at the memories, and he vows to keep the whole, uncensored trauma away from the kid. "Lucifer was, uh...trapped with me for a long time. He...yeah, he hurt me.

"But when I wake up, I remember that the dreams aren't real, that...that I'm safe here with people who care about me."

"So your dreams, they never go away?" Jack's expression is a picture of despondency.

Sam wishes he could tell the kid differently. "Not really. It sucks, I know. But remember, if you get scared, or if you need something, I'm just right down the hall."

Jack smiles a tiny, sad smile upon hearing this small reassurance.

Rising to his knees, Sam claps his palm gently against Jack's face, pretending not to notice the damp streaks beneath his fingers. "Get some sleep, okay, Jack?"

"I...I'll try."

On his feet again, Sam pauses before turning to leave. "How about I leave this light on? You don't have to sleep in the dark, you know."

Jack contemplates this briefly. After just a few seconds, he nods. "That sounds...good."

"Okay. Good night, Jack."

"Good night, Sam."

No, Sam Winchester is no stranger to nightmares. But maybe, he ruminates on his way back to his own room, maybe this is a good thing.

This is one thing, one more thing that he can help Jack through. Jack won't be a stranger to nightmares, either.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi again! Sequel time, sort of.
> 
> Again, this chapter takes place before 13x04.
> 
> Also: not a slash fic.
> 
> Enjoy!

Sam Winchester is no stranger to nightmares.

He and his brother have suffered unspeakable tragedies, the latest of which robbed them of their two closest supernatural allies as well as their mother.

Knowing where she is, who she's with, Sam isn't sure whether it's better if she's alive or dead. Turmoiled thoughts of her, Crowley's sacrifice, and the image of Cas dying before his eyes swim around and around in Sam's brain, over and over.

Sometimes it's easier to avoid sleep altogether.

That's what he's trying to do, seated at his desk with a mug of coffee and a book, bed neatly made despite the clock reading 1:30.

"Sam?"

The quiet word shocks Sam out of his chair, turning to face the doorway, to address the kid lingering there hesitantly.

"Hey, Jack. What is it?"

Bleary-eyed and barefoot, it's obvious that he's just gotten out of bed. He opens his mouth to answer, struggling to find the right words.

The way he avoids Sam's eyes, fixing his gaze on the floor, makes Sam sure it's something he doesn't want to say aloud.

Sam takes a few steps toward him, leveling his gaze to meet Jack's. "Did you have another...dream?"

The kid nods.

Placing a hand on Jack's shoulder, Sam guides him to the bed, inviting him to sit. "Was it Lucifer again?"

He shakes his head, slowly but adamantly. "No."

Sam sits beside Jack on the mattress, allowing a few feet of space between them. "What was it about?"

What other horrors live inside this child's head?

"It was..." Jack draws a shaky breath. "In my dream, I was looking for Castiel."

The name sends a ripple of sorrow through Sam. Just days ago their angel friend was alive, looking them in the eyes, assuring them that Lucifer's child was good and pure.

How could everything go so wrong?

"I was looking everywhere, but I couldn't find him. I didn't remember until I woke up that he's _dead._ "

 _He's dead._ Sam was the one who had to utter those words to Jack, after just a few hours of life. He could barely get the words out without choking on them.

Jack's shoulderblades draw tightly together. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bother you. I just felt a little..."

Sam squeezes his shoulder reassuringly. "You don't have to be sorry, Jack. I'm here for you, whenever you want to talk. About Cas, about anything."

The kid's expression is heartbreaking—the lost sadness of a small child blends with the deep, profound understanding of finality in death. Neither of his dual natures can help him cope with what he's lost. "My mother trusted him. He...he said he would protect me. Take care of me."

Sam nods. "He would've, Jack. He was...a good guy." The words fall flat in Sam's mouth, failing to truly describe what Cas had meant to them.

Not to mention that he feels he's failing Cas, at this very moment. If Cas hadn't died, _he_ would be the one comforting Jack from nightmares, the one teaching him about the world, the one helping him feel his way around life. Instead, Jack is stuck in the care of two emotionally stunted grown men—and Sam feels horribly, helplessly inadequate.

Jack bites his visibly trembling lip. "I wish I could've met him. Before he...died."

The image flares up again, of the blade stabbing straight through Castiel's body, the flare of white light burning out of him, burning him out, while Dean's futile cry echoes into the night.

Sam closes his eyes briefly, to block out the memory. "I'm...so sorry. That things turned out the way they did."

Sorry that, the same day he was born, he was ripped from the home his mother and surrogate father had prepared for him. Sorry that the man he first asked for had been murdered by the monster who fathered him. Sorry that he's living out his first days in an underground hideout, haunted by nightmares of his fathers.

"What was he like?"

Sam's eyes snap open again, meeting Jack's curious gaze. Unshed tears sparkle in his eyes, betraying the raw pain and sorrow that plagues him, unlike the soft, quiet grief that he displays to the world. Not unlike the muted grief Sam allows his brother to see.

"Who? Cas?"

Jack's brow wrinkles as he tries to understand. "He was your...friend?"

"More than that. He was our family. He was...brave. Selfless. Loyal to a fault." Sam allows himself a small, melancholy smile. "He...he had a hard time understanding things sometimes. Earth things. It was kind of funny.

"But when it came down to it, Cas just tried to do the right thing. I mean, he screwed up sometimes, and he made mistakes, but he never stopped trying to do what was right." To Sam, it's very important that Jack knows this—that making mistakes doesn't equate being a bad person. "You know, you're a little bit like him."

Jack's shoulders straighten at this, at a semblance of praise. "Really?"

Sam recognizes the hope in his tone, at the possibility that he is like someone good, that he can stay on the righteous path. He remembers clinging desperately to that hope every time someone told him he was like his big brother.

"Yeah. You two would've gotten along great."

Jack exhales in surprise, practically glowing at the compliment. Then his head drops suddenly, shoulders slumping at a new thought.

"Is that why Dean blames me?"

Sam's jaw clenches. While he loves his brother more than life itself, right now he doesn't even want to _talk_ about him, or the trajectory of his grief. "Dean is _wrong._ "

Jack is not convinced. "But...if I hadn't been born, Castiel would still be alive. My mother would still be alive." He turns his head away, scrubbing at his face furiously with a knuckle. "Maybe it _is_ all my fault."

Sam clamps the kid's shoulder even tighter, forcing him to pay attention. "Jack. _None_ of this is your fault." In his haste to make Jack understand, the words come out more sharply than he intends.

He deliberately softens his voice. "You didn't ask for any of this to happen. And you don't need to go around thinking that—that you just cause problems." The kid's low opinion of himself is agitating Sam into a fervor. Jack needs to know that he's valuable. And wanted.

Young Sam would've needed to hear that.

"I really think the world can be better with you in it," he says gently. "Not because of your powers. Just you being you."

The kid stares up at Sam, the open fear on his face reflective of the small child he really is. "How can you believe that?" he asks hoarsely.

"I have faith. Like...like Cas."

Jack's distress bleeds from his words, each one a cry for help. "What if I mess up? What if I let you down?"

Sam shakes his head. "You don't have to prove yourself to me, Jack. We're all going to make mistakes. What matters is that we try not to. I mean, do you _want_ to be evil?"

"No. I just...don't want to hurt anyone."

A bolstering smile flits across Sam's lips. "Then I don't think you have to worry about letting me—us—down." He places an arm around Jack's shoulders, drawing the kid close to him comfortingly.

Sam doesn't remember being a few days old, or even a few years—whatever is equivalent to Jack's development right now—but he knows how starved the kid must be for physical contact. Most of Sam's earliest memories happen in Dean's arms, or his dad's.

Jack's slender arms wind around Sam with no hesitation. He presses his face trustingly into Sam's shoulder, breathing shakily into the fabric of his shirt. The fierceness of his embrace awakens a long-dormant instinct in Sam—the protective impulse of an older brother over a younger, far more vulnerable sibling.

There's no doubt that Jack needs protection; nightmares are just the tip of the iceberg. He fears himself, the world, blame that might fall on his shoulders.

Sam has no idea how to raise a child. He only knows what he learned growing up. And turning a bad dream into encouragement seems like a good place to start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...and that got sappier than I imagined. Oh well, sorry not sorry lol. If you ask me, there CAN'T be enough bonding between Sam and Jack.
> 
> Anyway, this is kind of fun! I might do yet another one :) Stay tuned, leave a comment, and:
> 
> Thanks for reading KylerM!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Me again. My brain farted, and this came out, so I thought I'd share it lol.
> 
> I did this one a little different than the others. Let me know what you think!

Jack is getting used to the nightmares.

Sometimes they're very specific—the angels coming for him, their voices piercing the inside of his head like a burning spike, or Dean storming toward him swinging a long poker. (Only after it happened did he learn that it wasn't Dean, but he still remembers it that way.)

Other times, all he experiences are feelings: the hopeless feeling of looking for someone he can never find, the ominous feeling of being pursued by something evil, the horror of his real father murdering his chosen father.

Jack has never met Castiel or Lucifer, only felt them. Before he was born, in the safety of his mother, he can recall the peace and security that washed through her when she was with Castiel. He remembers Castiel's gentle presence, his sincere care for both Jack and his mother. He misses it.

Likewise, he recalls another presence, one with eyes that could bore through Jack's serenity, leaving him unsettled and, quite frankly, scared.

He hasn't felt that foreboding presence since he was born—but he remembers in his dreams.

When he wakes frightened from a nightmare, his first thought now is to scan his room. Not for monsters—to make sure his fear hasn't caused anything to happen. The possibility of that happening while he sleeps is almost more alarming than what he sees while he sleeps.

He's tried several times to stay awake through the night, to keep the dreams away, but sleep always comes. And so do the dreams.

One night he wakes from a particularly intense scene of Castiel being ripped from him by a figure with eerie, glowing eyes and a chilling smile, who demands that Jack call _him_ "father." When Jack comes to, his pillow is damp and his breathing ragged. His throat is so dry he doubts he could call out for Sam, even if he wanted to.

Sam has been kind and receptive each time Jack has come to him after a nightmare. Last time, he even opened up about Castiel, or _Cas,_ as he called him, letting Jack finally hear about their dead friend. He and Dean don't talk much about him otherwise.

But Jack doesn't want to bother Sam tonight. Doesn't want to risk alienating the person who's shown him the most care in his short life. Sam, at _thirty-four years old,_ still has nightmares, but he doesn't struggle after every one.

Jack's a big kid. He can handle this. (For the record, he can't fathom how long thirty-four years takes to pass. Each day, each hour even, seems like an eternity, especially when the time is so...empty.)

Despite being a big kid, he can't help but be grateful that the lights in the bunker hallways are always on, even during the night. Walking to the kitchen for some water is much easier that way.

What's not easy is seeing who's already in the kitchen. Hunched over a laptop, munching on a sandwich, a beer bottle on the table next to him.

Jack freezes in the doorway at the sight of Dean. Although Sam's big brother doesn't seem to be quite as hostile toward him now as when he was first born, his presence still makes Jack uneasy. (In his mind, the fire poker swings toward his head again.)

While Jack is debating whether or not to retreat to his room without getting any water, Dean lifts his gaze from the computer screen, catching sight of Jack. He blinks once, his mouth tightening, keeping his expression decidedly neutral.

Jack stiffens, waiting for a curt order, or an angry remark. Unlike with Sam, he's come to _expect_ less-than-gentle words from Dean. It doesn't mean he enjoys hearing them.

Instead, Dean returns his focus to his computer, mumbling only, "What're you doing up?"

Jack doesn't know how to respond. The words tumble out of his mouth, choppy and hesitant. "I...bad dream." He turns and heads toward the sink, his posture and movements rigid. With Dean, it feels like he's always bracing for an attack, some barrage of venom.

It's not until he has filled a cup with water that Dean speaks again. "What about?" His tone is level, even. Nonthreatening.

Again, Jack scrambles to answer his question. For once, Dean does not seem angry or bitter—just tired.

"Lucifer." Jack squeezes his lips together, swallowing the lump in his throat. He won't cry in front of Dean. He won't.

Dean doesn't act surprised at the mention of Lucifer's name. He nods slightly, like he expected the answer. "Yeah, he's a tough customer." He looks up from the laptop again, eyes meeting Jack's. The look in them, it's almost...sympathetic.

Jack gathers his courage. With small, faltering steps, he makes his way over to the table, standing opposite Dean. "He...he killed Castiel, didn't he? Lucifer did."

Dean's jaw clenches at the mention of Castiel. His expression darkens, and Jack is afraid he's crossed a line.

For Sam, remembering their friend Castiel is something sad. But for Dean, thinking of him is something to be angry about. It's like every negative emotion Dean feels comes out as anger.

But this time, Dean forces himself to remain calm. He exhales sharply, taking a swig out of his beer bottle before replying. "Yeah," he says tersely.

Jack perches tentatively on the seat across from Dean. He wants to say this to Dean, when he's in a relatively good mood, when he's less likely to snap back at Jack. "I'm sorry."

Dean's brow pinches together minutely, a delicate expression of confusion.

"I know you think it's my fault. That I'm the reason he's—he's dead." Jack stutters, rushing through his apology. "I just want to say I'm sorry."

No matter how much Sam tells Jack he's not responsible, Jack knows Dean doesn't agree. To an extent, he himself doesn't believe he's free of blame.

Dean is quiet, staring past Jack. The silence hangs heavy between them.

"S-sorry," Jack repeats, more faintly this time. "I—I'll go."

"Kid." Dean deliberately closes his laptop. His vacant expression softens almost imperceptibly. He takes a deep breath, steeling himself to speak. "Listen, I...I don't think it's your fault. I mean, I try to convince myself it is, but I know it's not."

His eyes meet Jack's, truly, for the first time in the conversation. And, for the first time, Jack can see how weary, how filled with pain they are. It's the first time Dean has _let_ him see.

Jack stands rapt, listening.

"You know, I thought...I thought Cas was wrong about you. I thought you were gonna be the one to hurt him. But...turns out he was right—and he got killed all the same. I guess that's the worst part."

Did Dean just say what Jack thinks he said?

"He was...right?"

Dean looks away, taking another swig of beer. "Cas...he wanted to take care of you, to make sure you turned out okay."

Jack can barely breathe.

"I guess the least we can do is...try not to let him down."

A warm, tingly feeling rushes through Jack, sparking a match of hope. Like when he got to see his mom, have her hold him just once. Like when Sam hugged him—and told him he was like Castiel.

A small, joyous smile creeps over Jack's lips as he blurts out, " _Thank_ you."

Muttering a barely audible "Mm-hmm," Dean opens his laptop again and picks up his sandwich, clearly finished with the exchange.

It's not much, but Jack will take it—gladly.

The water he came for is all but forgotten. He almost leaves it behind on the counter as he heads back toward his room.

The nightmare, though it still looms in the recesses of Jack's mind, has softened some.

And he doesn't think he'll have that dream with the fire poker again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there ya have it!
> 
> I finally included Dean in these, because heaven knows he could use some bonding right now. I still love him, always will!
> 
> Hope you enjoyed, leave a review!
> 
> Thank you for reading Kyler M.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there! I come bearing gifts! ...meager gifts.
> 
> Technically, this isn't even a chapter, more like a coda to the previous one. But it wouldn't get out of my head until I wrote it down, and I thought I might as well share it. :)
> 
> Hope you can enjoy it, even though it's short.

It's honestly too early to be up.

Sam wouldn't be up, but he woke suddenly, with an exceptionally dry mouth. And naturally the pitcher he keeps beside his bed is empty.

It's too early to be up, except he runs into Jack on his way to the kitchen. Jack, who sticks to a fairly regular sleeping schedule, unless he's had a bad dream.

But he's _smiling._

"Hey, Sam," he says, a note of...cheeriness? coloring his tone. His stride is open, more confident than other times he's wandered the bunker halls at night.

"Hey, Jack," he answers with a bewildered smile. "You okay?"

He contemplates this a minute. "Yeah. I am."

"Okay. Good."

_What happened?_

Sam is even more confused when he enters the kitchen and sees Dean there. Dean, in the same room that Jack has just left—left, with a smile on his face.

Something is weird about that.

"Hey," Dean greets him, barely glancing up from the screen. "We havin' a party?"

"Dean..." Sam moves in close to his brother, lowering his voice to almost a whisper. "What did you say to him? He's... _smiling._ "

Dean rolls his eyes. "Just told the truth—that Cas thought he was worth it."

Sam exhales, one hand running through his hair. Dean just said something _nice_ to Jack. He might not consider it a big deal, but Sam knows—he just saw—how important it was to Jack.

This is what Sam has wanted—for Dean to just make an effort.

"Dean...Thank you."

He knows how hard it is to vy for the approval of someone who refuses to give it. The fact that Dean has shifted his viewpoint even a _little,_ to not only respect Cas's wishes, but show Jack a sliver of compassion is...a call for celebration.

...

It's still too early to be up.

Even so, Sam can't return to bed without checking in with Jack. Of course Dean's blanket statement hasn't cured Jack of his fears. He's still struggling to relax, to succumb to unconsciousness, where his nightmares live.

It's too early to be up—but Sam stays up anyway, his presence and the occasional soft-spoken reassurance being enough to soothe Jack back to sleep.

It's definitely too early to be up, because when Dean finally gives in to his sagging eyelids and heads for bed, he passes by Sam's open doorway and surveys an empty room. And when he passes Jack's room, he sees his kid brother dozing in a chair, next to the bed of their soundly sleeping kid nephilim.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! Each time I post, I figure it’ll be the last time for this story. Then the show goes and gives me more ideas. :D
> 
> So this chapter takes place after 13x06, but it might become AU after 13x07 premieres. Angst abounds.
> 
> At any rate, SPOILERS for the end of 13x06.

It’s not just a dream this time.

The memory haunts Jack every waking moment, intrudes on his thoughts whenever he so much as closes his eyes to blink.

All it took was a second. One flick of power, one poorly placed pillar. And now a man is dead.

Jack has heard that word a lot in the short time he’s been alive. It’s such a harsh word, one that carries such finality. When he asked for his father, Castiel, the answer was, _He’s dead._ (Somehow, Castiel’s death wasn’t as permanent as all the others.) Sam and Dean have thrown the word around a lot about their mother— _she’s dead, maybe she’s not dead, she was great and now she’s dead._

Even his own mother is dead—died when he was born.

But this is the first time that someone is dead unequivocally because of something _he_ did. He, Jack. _He_ killed that man.

He relives it constantly, the rush of power, of confidence. Then the horrible twist, things going perfectly and all wrong at once. Every sharp sound he hears becomes the _smack_ of the guard’s head against the pillar, and every shade of red darkens into the pool of his blood spreading sickeningly on the pavement.

Sam’s proclamation, so calmly spoken, turns accusatory in his memory. _He’s dead. You killed him, Jack. You did this._

Castiel’s earlier declaration of pride, of care, sours into disappointment. _You were supposed to change the world for the_ better, _not worse._

And his mother, dead before she could see him alive, no longer comforts him with reassuring words: _I love you, Jack. You are going to be...amazing. Even monsters can do good in this world._

Now, in his mind, she stares at the dead man with bitter resignation. _My g*d, Jack, what have you done?_

_I killed someone,_ he whispers to empty space. _I killed an innocent man. I’m a monster. I’m evil. I did an evil thing._

No matter how many times Sam, Castiel, and even Dean, try to tell him otherwise, he knows the truth. Killing is wrong. _That_ is what has made him a monster—not being Lucifer’s son, or having powers, or hurting people without meaning to.

Besides, would Dean say the same to Jack if it were Sam who ended up dead? Would Sam still be able to care for Jack if he accidentally killed Dean?

That’s why he left them. They _believe_ in him —he can’t bear the thought of letting them down more.

There is nowhere on earth he can go that he can’t hurt anyone, so he never remains in any one place. Life without the Winchesters is frightening, fleeting, dark, and uncertain.

He misses them. He misses the comfort, the safety of their home—the home they shared with him. But if Jack remained there, he knows he would destroy their trust, their safety and security. Someone would get hurt. Better he leave first, hurting only himself.

He remembers Castiel telling him how heaven is a—relatively—safe place. How his mother is happy there.

He wishes he could join her there. Angels and people who are already dead surely can’t be hurt by his powers.

But he has no idea where heaven is. No way of getting there, not even with his newfound skill of teleporting.

He can’t even get there by way of dying, because time and time again he’s proven to be un-kill-able.

If that weren’t the case, he might have tried that route.

Instead, though, Jack wanders the earth. Alone, he finds no comfort from the hardships of life, no gentle support from Sam, no words of affirmation from Dean, no kindness or care from Castiel.

None of them can offer any respite from the guilt that torments him, from the terrible memories rooted deeply in his mind.

And they shouldn’t. Jack does not deserve to have this burden lifted from his shoulders. As his punishment, he suffers.

Sometimes it becomes unbearable, and Jack finds himself curled into a ball in some dark alley, struggling to block the onslaught of images that seem branded on his eyelids.

He misses his bed. He misses the companionship so easily sought out. He wishes he could still cry out in fear in the middle of the night, and Sam would come to check on him, to reassure him of his own goodness.

But he’s no longer deserving of that. Now, he deserves the fear, the uncertainty.

Now he deserves the nightmares.

...

_“Jack?”_

The sudden, intrusive voice startles him from an uneasy sleep. The familiar tone, cadence, crackles fuzzily inside Jack’s head without any visible source. Like the Impala’s radio with a bad connection.

_”Jack, it’s Sam. I...don’t know if you can hear...prayers or whatever, but...just wanted to give this a shot._

_“We miss you. We’re worried about you. We just...want to know you’re safe.”_

Jack squeezes his eyes shut, wishing there were some way he could block out the words. But at the same time, he longs to hear Sam’s voice, hear his friend’s gentle offerings of comfort.

_“Look, I know that what happened was...awful, and there’s no...fixing it. But it doesn’t mean you’re a—you know. You’re still just you._

_“Jack, we want you to come home. I want you to come home. I understand if you need some time, or some space. But if you can hear me, just know I’m not giving up on you. You’re not a lost cause._

_“You feel...bad. I know. Trust me, I know. But the fact that you do...that right there is proof that you’re good.”_

_No, I’m not,_ he whispers back. _I’ll never be as good as you._

_“So when you’re ready, you can come back home. We can get through this, together. Jack, we haven’t known you for very long, but...you’re practically family already. I mean, we basically adopted you the minute you were born._

_“Jack, what I’m trying to say is I don’t want to lose you. Life sucks, bad, when stuff like this happens, but it sucks a lot less when you’ve got family to help you through._

_“Just...stay safe. Be okay, please.”_

Jack exhales, the breath catching in his throat. _Family._ Sam called him _family._

Drawing his legs up to his chest, he buries his face in his knees.

_I can’t be your family, Sam. I’m not good enough._

_Not anymore._

**Author's Note:**

> *also posted on FF.
> 
> Thanks for reading KylerM!


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